


Sensations

by Thuri



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-18
Updated: 2003-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble-ish thing written too late at night.  1-8 of planned 26 that never happened.  These take place during the quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensations

Apples. The smooth, round feeling in the hand. The first brush of the slick skin against the lips. The feeling of teeth piercing the thin peel and the first taste of juice welling up in the punctures. The heady smell in the nostrils, as teeth sink in further, then meet and pull loose the firm chunk. The crisp feel of the skin and flesh crunching between teeth. The taste, simply indescribable to any who hadn't, and all too familiar to those who had. Yes, Merry decided, he loved apples. But a single apple did not a meal make.  
  
He bit into the one Strider had thrown to him anyway, determined to enjoy it since nothing else was forthcoming.

* * *

Beer. The colour of a good stout, dark and rich with hints of light foam. The smell of fermented grains so thick you could get drunk on the fumes alone. The sensation of liquid, thicker than water, passing parted lips to roll about the tongue, coating every inner surface, before trickling cool and wet down the dusty throat. The taste, satisfying hints of burned hops mixing with a sharper bite, almost as filling as food. Almost. Merry loved a good ale, perhaps more than apples.  
  
Be a bloody long time before he tasted it again, too. He hitched his pack higher on his shoulders, and followed Frodo up the hill.

* * *

Candles. The steady light thrown across a page. The mellow scent of tallow, or perhaps the luxury of beeswax if they had company. The hot wax dripping over fingers that could never resist playing in it, no matter how many times they were scorched. The soft, barely audible crackle of the burning wick. So different from harsh firelight, despite being close kin. Merry gripped his sword hilt tighter as his eyes scanned the night.  
  
Yes, the thought of soft candle light in a faraway hobbit hole was very nice indeed, when black riders were on the prowl.

* * *

Danger. The knotting pain in the gut. The spicy taste of bile in the throat. The smell of sweat and blood, thick in the night air. The sound forever now the screeching of tormented souls. The sensation never really experienced before, no matter the times running from dogs or angry farmers. The sensation of being truly in risk of dying. And they hadn't even been after him. Merry went hot and cold, feeling the invisible eyes on him again, but tried to show no sign of it.  
  
He clutched Frodo's cold hand, watching for the ranger to return.

* * *

Elves. The clear, bright light, seen with mind and soul and not with eyes, emanated from the one before them. The grace with which he moved, ancient yet young, each movement studied, deliberate, and heartbreakingly beautiful. The clear ringing of his voice, so like the bells Asfaloth bore. Tall and golden and too fair to be real, he strode on endlessly. Merry felt grubby, small and terribly insignificant. But he felt hopeful again for the first time since Weathertop.  
  
Tired and weary, he put one foot in front of the other until he stumbled, asleep on his legs. But he reached out to support Pippin when he faltered and nearly fell. "Not long, now, Pip. We'll sleep soon."

* * *

Frodo. The deep blues eyes, clouded and unseeing. The kind hand, cold and unmoving. The warm voice, rising and fading in dark dreams. The ready laugh, not heard for weeks. The kind cousin, turned away into something else. Merry again felt bile rise in his throat, but it was fear that caused it this time, not danger. What did arrival in Rivendell matter, when Frodo lay as still as death?  
  
He said not a word of his fear when Pippin asked "Is he going to die?" To speak it might make it real.

* * *

Grass. The cool greens and warm yellows of individual pieces blending seamlessly together. The sharp prickle of blades against palms and skin, familiar and welcome. The long known scent of crushed and trodden bits, rising to nostrils that missed it without knowing. The whistling sound a split blade made as Pippin put it to his lips and blew through it. The bitter tang of the root, crunched between curious teeth. Merry stretched in the fall sunlight, relaxing in the Rivendell clearing.  
  
He listened to Frodo laugh at Sam's jest, grateful that some things in this place of the elves were the same as in the Shire.

* * *

Home. The lights of Brandy Hall after a late night at the pub, burning bright and cheerful against the dark. The rich scent of dinner or supper, mixed in with smoke of hearth fires and pipes. The gentle babble of the river as it slipped over stones, glinting in a summer sun. The many and varied tastes of a decent six meals a day. The knowledge of comfortable life, of love and of safety and of all anyone could want, stretching out for as long as he could see. If the ring was destroyed.  
  
Merry and Pippin exchanged a wordless look. "We're coming, too!" Some things were more important than six meals and safety.

* * *


End file.
